


Détente

by DarthNickels



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Daddy Issues, Depression, Facial Shaving, Gen, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intricate Rituals but platonically, Light descriptive gore, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: "a relaxing of tension, especially between nations, as by negotiations or agreements."6x08 Missing scene. Mr. Bates has never had reason or inclination to be patient with Thomas. Today, he will try.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & John Bates
Comments: 20
Kudos: 191





	Détente

**Author's Note:**

> Consider the tags before reading. This is potentially very upsetting.

“Mr. Bates,” Mrs. Hughes smiled, but her eyes were uneasy. She glanced at the case tucked under his arm, asking without asking: “I’m surprised to see you up here in the attics…”

“Came to see Thomas,” he tried to sound light, casual—a social call to an old friend.

_ Just popped in, heard you’d tried to punch your own ticket, now whatever would you do a thing like that for—_

Her face fell. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s got the flu—”

“I know he doesn’t.”

She sighed.

“I suppose you’d have it out of Anna sooner or later. I hope you understand that things are still—touch and go.”

“I know.” Anna came back to the cottage looking so pale and sad, _it’s so horrible it’s like he did die in the bath, like his spirit’s left and his body just keeps on breathing, even after everything he’s done I can’t stand to see him like that_—

“She needed a lie-down, so I’m taking her shift. It’s been a few days, and I thought—” he presented the kit to her, a sign of his good intentions, “—he could use a shave.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” she said, carefully, “but I’m not sure he’s ready for it.”

“I’ll be careful—keep an eye on things.” This was Thomas’ own shaving kit, actually, brought back to the cottage for storage—_it was in Mrs. Hughes’ sitting room, but he asked her for it and she thinks he knows and if he got his hands on it he’ll try it again_—

She hesitated, wavering. “You haven’t always been friendly.”

_He started it_, John thought, petulantly. “I can be pleasant for a half-hour.” _Unlike some people_—

That wasn’t kind. He could do without sinking to his level.

Mrs. Hughes pressed her lips together. “Be gentle,” she said, at last. “I’ll send Andy up; he can help if you need a second pair of hands.”

Ominous. John only nodded. “Thank you—but I’m sure I won’t.”

She turned for the stairs, then stopped. “Please be patient with him,” she said, soft and imploring. “I know—I know he’s been difficult, and you have things to say, but he—can’t take it right now. Please don’t try and have it out with him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of—”

“I mean it. If you push him, he will _break_.”

In South Africa, he’d heard of a man who’d put his rifle in his mouth and miraculously survived—only to fumble the pistol off his lieutenant’s belt and do it again, with permanent results.

Thomas was nothing if not tenacious.

“It’ll be as if I was shaving his Lordship,” John promised. “He might get a kick out of that.”

Her mouth twitched up at the corner, but she didn’t smile. “I hope so.”

The door to Thomas’ room was propped open; privacy privileges suspended until he could be trusted on his own again. Not safe in his own company—John could appreciate the irony. After years of warning people off, the person most at risk from Thomas was the man himself.

“Hello,” John called, pleasant but not so cheerful as to mock him.

Thomas didn’t turn to him. He didn’t move at all. He lay on the bed, curled on his side, sheets wrapped around his fists and pulled up under his chin.

“Good afternoon, I should say,” John tried again. “Anna’s putting her feet up, thought I’d drop in.”

_Thought I’d drop in_, a lie if there ever was one, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. He’d been ready for Thomas to shout at him, or throw something, or at least sneer. Instead—

Nothing.

He set the kit on the dresser, walking over to his bedside. Perhaps he was still asleep? No, his eyes were open—though he looked anywhere but his visitor.

“You’re looking a bit disheveled, Mr. Barrow. I thought you might like a shave.”

Nothing.

“You can’t get a good shave in town anymore, no one cares to do the thing properly. It’ll be a treat.”

Thomas shook his head. John felt his good temper slipping through his fingers.

“Come on,” he said, brusquely, “time to get up.”

But Thomas didn’t stir. He only curled inward, bringing the sheet closer, all the way to his throat.

_Be patient with him_, Mrs. Hughes had nearly begged him. It was a tall order. He and Thomas had been at war off and on for nearly fifteen years, interrupted by periods of stalemate and one actual war. _Patient_ was the last thing he’d been— and to be fair, Thomas had never asked it of him. In victory, he was insufferable—

—and in defeat, pitiful.

Perhaps that was harsh, but it did take a profound and devastating loss for Thomas to give up. The man never surrendered when there was an avenue of strategic retreat.

_I’m beaten,_ he’d said, hollow-eyed and frighteningly pale._ I’m well and truly beaten_.

He was even worse now—at least that Thomas could pack up his things and consider his next move. Now he lay on the bed, gaunt and haunted, unwilling to dress himself, refusing any food that couldn’t be poured down his throat.

The white bandages on his wrists peaked out over the sheets. It should be unthinkable for a man like Thomas, vain and self-obsessed, to try and destroy the only thing he’d ever cared for.

_He doesn’t care for himself much anymore_, John thought, unbidden, _judging by the state he’s in._

“You’ll feel better when you look presentable,” he said aloud. “Now, up you get—”

He wheedled and coaxed, but Thomas didn’t respond—only closed his eyes and shook his head.

_Come on, get back up, let’s go another round_, he thought. _Come on, slimy git, you won’t get out that easy_—

“Look at me,” he called, sharply. “Thomas—” he reached out, nearly grabbing the man’s face, only to see his eyes crack open and he—

Flinched—

Oh.

John knew that fleeting expression—that half second of terror—he’d seen that same, cringing acceptance before—

_He says things,_ Anna told him, worn and sad, _the most horrible things—_

_Don’t listen to him, you know they aren’t true—_

_ But that’s just it—I think they are—_

Something clicked into place. He hadn’t considered it—but somehow, he should have known.

He had never been patient with Thomas before—never felt he was _owed_ much patience before. He checked his watch—he’d allotted a half hour on Anna’s behalf, but now he thought he could spare more.

“Andy?” he stuck his head out the door. “If its no trouble, could you fill this with hot water? As hot as you can get.”

“Certainly,” the young man took the basin, relieved he wouldn’t have to see more of poor, mad, Mr. Barrow today.

_None of us like to look at our handiwork_, John thought, dark and self-recriminating. John went back to the bed, where Thomas hadn’t moved an inch, and gingerly sat next to him.

“Thomas,” he said, “I think you’d like a shave. I think it would make you feel better.”

Thomas looked up at him, just barely inclining his head. They were bloodshot, with heavy dark shadows beneath, but still pale and piercing.

“Wouldn’t you like to feel better?”

Thomas’ face crumpled, and John knew he’d misstepped—of course he would. He couldn’t, and that’s why he’d—

“Just a little bit,” he added, hurriedly. “Just a quick shave, and you’ll be able to rest again. Then you’d look so smart for Miss Baxter when she comes back.” He hesitated, calculating the risk, and then put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder.

“Would you like that?” he offered, with a gentle squeeze.

For a long moment, he was afraid Thomas would refuse—or worse. But slowly—painfully slowly— he started to leverage himself up.

“Here we are,” John moved to his side, sliding a shoulder under Thomas’ armpit. “One, two, three, and _up_—” 

He wasn’t ready for how much weight Thomas put on him, and his knee screamed in protest—but he just barely managed the few, shuffling steps before sliding Thomas’ dead weight into the chair. He straightened and tried to act as though he wasn’t out of breath.

“Thank you, Andy,” he said, as the young man set the steaming basin on the dresser. “I’ll give a shout if I need anything more.”

He unlatched the dark wood box where Thomas kept his kit, nodding approvingly—there had been a time, in that hopeful recent past, when Thomas had wanted to take care of himself. The brush was soft under his fingers, and the soap of excellent quality. He draped the barber cloth over Thomas’ chest, and a towel over his own arm, and set about working up a good lather.

“Mrs. Patmore’s in rare form today,” he said, sliding into small-talk out of habit. He half expected to hear his Lordship’s polite ‘oh? Whatever for?’, before he remembered himself.

“She got six dozen eggs this morning and over half of them were cracked, you should have heard her once she got a hold of the grocer…”

Thomas didn’t reply, and John couldn’t tell if he was listening or not. The blue eyes followed his every move, flinching at first as the brush touched his cheek—but John had been doing this since before Thomas was born, and soon enough he let him paint the lather across his chin without fuss.

“—poor Daisy kept trying to talk her down, but she should know by now that only makes her more peevish—”

John kept talking, low and soothing, as he opened the straight razor. Someone had taken care with it—retrieved it, cleaned it and dried it, so there were no spots of rust or dried blood in the crevices. Thomas’ eyes flicked to the razor, then down into his lap.

“—the new girls are all scared stiff of her, you can imagine, but it’s all water off a duck’s back to Daisy these days, she’s grown into such a fearless little thing—” he prattled, putting the blade to Thomas’ cheek and dragging it gently, with all the grace left in his hands. He pulled away easily, wiping the razor on the cloth, and set about it again.

He would buy Thomas a new razor, he resolved. Something cheap, and ugly, so that Thomas would feel compelled to go out and replace it with one so awful and flashy that he would laugh to see it. John was going to throw this one away once he’d finished, and let this be the last time the blade touched the man’s skin.

He wetted the edge of the towel, wiping away the last traces of soap, and patted Thomas’ cheeks dry—carefully, like he actually would break. He still looked hollow and worn, but without the stubble one could pretend he wasn’t near collapse.

John rubbed the aftershave between his palms— “hold still”—and cupped Thomas’ face in his hands. He stayed like that, one long moment, instead of the usual brisk clap. Thomas looked up at him, his eyes huge and lost, as he worked it over the raw skin—

“All finished,” John said. “Well done.” Whether he meant himself or Thomas, he could say. “Isn’t that better?”

Thomas turned, craning his neck so he could look in the mirror. Whatever his opinion of John’s work, his face never changed. He turned back, looking at the razor John was now carefully packing away.

“I should have used a gun.” His voice was low, raspy from disuse—he nearly didn’t get the words out.

And the words themselves were—chilling.

“Come again?”

“I should have used a gun,” Thomas repeated, flat and matter-of-fact. “I should have known I couldn’t have a bath in peace.”

It was such an awful, flat mockery of Thomas’ usual grousing. “They don’t always work, you know,” John said without thinking. “There are men alive with a bullet in their brains.”

“I know. I saw it. In the war. Thought about it then.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” He felt a fool saying it, but—it was true.

“I would have done it in the library,” Thomas said. “Blown my brains up into the crevices and moulding. Ceiling, walls, books, all of it. They’d be at it for days scrubbing me out of there. His Lordship wants the walls re-painted. How about red?”

Ghoulish. Horrible. Thankless—

_Be patient with him_.

“And why didn’t you?” John asked.

Thomas crumpled.

“I didn’t want to look like that,” he said. “When they found me and—I hated—when you tried to pick them up, with their face gone, and their tongues hanging out—swinging—every step wagging back and forth—”

“Don’t think about it now,” John said, quickly, “don’t think about it—"

“I’m tired,” Thomas looked truly exhausted. “I wanted it to be over…I wanted to go quiet…”

It hadn’t been peaceful. Anna told him, fearfully, about the harsh rattle of his breathing, and John knew the sound well—he had thrashed, tried to fight them off before losing consciousness—

“It’s not over until its over,” John felt he was grasping at straws, but he had to say _something_.

“It is for me.”

He reached up, and pushed a hand through Thomas’ dark hair. It fell over his face, nearly into his eyes. “You’re getting a little shaggy. How about a trim?”

Thomas didn’t agree—but he didn’t protest, and John pulled the linen up close around his neck, fastening it closed before calling for more hot water.

War, he had learned, did funny things to soldiers. Men found their priorities reordered, those who had scoffed at him for cutting hair lined up for a trim, offering up their treasures—tea, tobacco, disgusting girly-pictures— for even five minutes in a barber’s chair. There was an art to it, more than just dragging a razor across the scalp to be free of lice and nits. Warm water and soap were luxuries in and of themselves, but it took a certain amount of skill to realize their worth.

He worked the shampoo into Thomas’ scalp, finger buried in his hair, and was rewarded by Thomas leaning into his hands—shoulders slumping, neck arched. That was where stiffness built, after a long day of standing at attention—between the shoulder blades, the jaw, down the spine—

He placed his thumbs, gently, at the very base of the skull, where Thomas’ hairline ended, and massaged in careful, calculated circles. Thomas’ eyes closed lazily, and some of the creases around his eyes eased.

There was a reason the Earl of Grantham retained her services after so much trouble and strife. John was _very_ good at his job.

Perhaps he should have offered to give Thomas a haircut years ago. A foolish thought—he knew that Thomas only accepted his ministrations _now_ because he was too beaten down to refuse. He imagined explaining this situation to the John Bates of thirteen years ago, and couldn’t fathom where he would even begin.

He dragged the comb through Thomas’ hair, feeling less like a barber and more like a shopkeeper fussing over a mannequin. The fog of misery that had permeated Thomas’ brain left him limp and pliable, not caring if he was dressed or undressed, wheeled about or left in a corner—

It was not a comforting thought.

“Why—” John nearly jumped out of his skin to hear Thomas speak again. “Why’s he so keen to be rid of me?”

“Who?” he asked, stupidly. Carson? Surely Thomas knew why—

“His Lordship,” he rasped.

Ah.

“The rest of them—they’ll never—” Thomas couldn’t quite bring himself to finish that thought, but pressed on: “But— I gave him my best. Always. Even—even when…” he trailed off. “I did a good job. Why’s that…not enough?”

For a long moment, John let the soft snip-snip of his scissors be his only answer. He could remember, as clear as yesterday, Thomas showing him the Earl’s assorted closets and wardrobes with burning jealousy written on his face. _Unbecoming behavior_, he had thought, _but he’ll accept the slight in time_. He assumed that hurt and hate would burn out soon enough.

Wrong on both counts, it seems.

_I envy you_…

“You have a place here until you find something else,” John settled on. “He wants to see you looked after until then.”

“I looked. I looked for a place—I tried—but—people know there’s something wrong with me,” Thomas said. “I can’t hide it. People look at me and they just…know. My father knew. It’s why—” he broke off, but John thought he could fill in the gaps on his own.

He grimaced.

“I did try,” Thomas went on. “I did try—to make myself different. But I think—if I did—it wouldn’t matter. It’s—all of me. _Every_ part. But I—I work hard. I know they don’t trust me but I can—I’ve been _loyal_…how could I not be loyal to them? I don’t have anywhere else to go…”

It was a sentiment all the more wretched and pathetic for its earnest sincerity. He didn’t know what to say—left alone to and given a certain amount of appeasement, Thomas _would_ go about doing his job, and the schemes dried up.

Nothing to keep him busy now—nothing to distract from the hollowness of his little victories.

“His Lordship understands,” John said, at long last. He was brushing away the small hairs, off Thomas’ neck and onto the floor. “He knows things are difficult.” He wet his towel in the still-warm water and gently wiped beneath the cloth, down to his back and up behind his ears. He took the dry end and toweled off Thomas’ hair before reaching for a brush, carefully setting it back in order.

“You shouldn’t worry about all that now. You can take another crack at it when you’re well.”

For a long moment, he thought Thomas might pull himself back together. He watched him fight for composure, press his lips together—

But his eyes welled up and spilled over, and he shoved his hand in his mouth to muffle his cry. His shoulders shook, and he wept with his face in his hands. He couldn’t force the words out, but John got the message:

_I don’t think I’ll ever be well again_.

“There, there,” John said, stupidly. He patted Thomas on the shoulder. “There, there—that’s alright…”

He hadn’t meant any harm—but now he realized, to his chagrin, that he was trying to convince Sisyphus that there was joy in pushing the stone uphill once more.

“Easy now,” he said, laying his hand between Thomas’ shoulder blades. “Here—” he fumbled in his coat, pulling out a clean handkerchief. “Let me—” he pushed Thomas’ hands down, and dabbed at his eyes.

“You don’t have to think about it now,” he said, hoping these were the words that would make him stop. “Don’t let it trouble you now—”

There was footsteps in the hall, and they turned as one—Mrs. Hughes fixed John with a look most men would have quailed under.

_I’ve put my foot in it_, he tried to convey with his expression, _I’ve made a mess of things and if you could please take over from here—_

“Mr. Barrow! Don’t you look handsome,” Mrs. Hughes said, brushing past him and coming to Thomas’ side. John beat a graceful retreat, and she went on: “that’s a relief, isn’t it?” She ran her fingers through Thomas’ hair and smiled, encouragingly.

He did his best to mimic the expression, holding it for a fleeting second before it slid off his face.

“You must be tired,” Mrs. Hughes went on. “Let’s get back to bed. Miss Baxter’s going to bring you a tray—”

“’m not hungry,” Thomas mumbled, but he let her take him by the arm. John quietly packed up the kit—checking and then checking again that the scissors and the razor were safely packed up before tucking it under his arm. He went to the hall, passing Baxter with a tray—she looked at him, curiously, but didn’t pause as she turned the corner into Thomas’ room—

“Oh! Don’t you look nice? Is that why I saw Mr. Bates leaving just now…?”

He waited for Mrs. Hughes to reappear. The moment she left the room she dropped her brave face— she looked very, very tired.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had it in hand until the end—”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she said. “It’s past time we found out where the sore spots are.”

“Quite,” John hesitated. He hated to put more on her shoulders, but— “have you spoken to Fairburn recently?”

She raised an eyebrow, wondering what business he had with the gamekeeper. “I haven’t.”

“He needs to keep an eye on the guns,” he said, as casually as he could. It took a moment for her to hear what he wasn’t saying, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“He said something?”

“Yes. He couldn’t manage it now. But—”

“I’ve got his keys,” she said, faintly. “But—yes. I’ll speak to Mr. Fairburn. Thank you.” She started off, but he held out his hand to stop her.

“Did Dr. Clarkson say—” he hesitated, searching for the words “—when we might expect him to be well again?”

Mrs. Hughes smiled, but it was terribly sad. “Dr. Clarkson thinks we should give him over to the professionals,” she said, quietly. “He recommended—there is a place, and he says it’s quite nice, not like you hear about, but…I couldn’t bear to send him away. Not when it made him so unhappy in the first place…”

“I agree,” he said. “Only as a last resort.”

“It won’t come to that,” she said, and he wondered who he was really trying to assure. “It’s good of you to take his side in this.”

“There’s no fun to be had when one’s sparring partner is ill,” he said, with a cheer he didn’t feel. “It’s not a fair fight.”

“No,” she said. “Poor lad—it never has been.”


End file.
